


The Comfort of Strangers

by Medie



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Background Femslash, Community: hc_bingo, Gen, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one can help me," you say. "They've tried."</p><p>That does make him smile. "They're not me."</p><p>Your eyebrow goes up. "Let me guess, you're the goddamn Batman, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comfort of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HC_Bingo prompt "Stalkers". Thanks to Azar for the title and hand holding!

You don't know him. You've met him, you guess, but you can't imagine who he might be. You've tried, but you get nowhere. The people you've consulted tell you it could be anyone. They say it's probably someone you met in passing and nothing you did caused it. Most days you believe that, but when the letters start getting darker and the 'gifts' more violent, you can't help wondering what you did.

You try to ignore it at first, you pretend he's not there somewhere, but you know you can't for long. Your instincts are screaming to run and, when you finally get up the nerve to ask, the police agree a move would be best.

And so you move. He finds you after a year and a half. You move again and, this time, it's two, but he finds you and you move for the third time. This time, though, you tell no one where you're going. You send Christmas and birthday presents through Amazon and you buy gift cards at the grocery store to pay for them. Communication is one way. The presents proof you're all right, but as impersonal as possible. Nothing that might let on where you are. They can't know. They can never know. You miss them, but every day that passes without gift or note is a reminder why.

Until he finds you and you move yet again.

You don't want to like New York, you try not to like anywhere you live (you can't like it or you might love it. If you love it, you won't want to leave and then he'll find you for sure) but you can't help yourself this time. Your apartment is small, but clean, and your landlord is a sweet old woman with a daughter in the NYPD. You like them both. More than you should.

You never let yourself think this time you've won; you can't let yourself hope for anything, but you think it might be nice.

Your water goes out one morning in the middle of your shower. You call downstairs and get your landlord's daughter. She's used to the building's temperamental plumbing and volunteers to take a look. You feel ridiculous, but you've got soap in your hair and one leg half-shaved, and you need to leave for work in an hour.

You agree.

She fixes your pipes, you fix her breakfast, and somewhere in the middle of it all you stumble your way into a date.

You get to work with a smile on your face that promptly vanishes when you see the box. Dead roses, thorns pricked red with blood, and you cry when you throw them out.

You _liked_ New York. You leave work early with plans to pack. You're debating whether or not you should cancel on your date when someone stops you outside your building.

He stands by the front steps, hands out to either side, unarmed and unobtrusive. You've never met him and, you hope, that means it isn't _him_ , but you aren't sure.

You hesitate.

"I'm John," he says. He doesn't smile or try to look reassuring and, somehow, that makes you feel better. "I think you might have a problem I can help with."

You bite out a laugh and, before you know it, you're crying for real. Not anger or disappointment, like you did at work with that goddamn box in your hand, but fear and pain. You're _tired_ of this. Exhausted. The idea of even mustering up the energy to go upstairs is too much.

"No one can help me," you say. "They've tried."

That does make him smile. "They're not me."

Your eyebrow goes up. "Let me guess, you're the goddamn Batman, right?"

He looks like he might laugh at that one, but he just shakes his head saying, "Nah, I just moonlight sometimes."

You look at him. "You're not—you're serious."

"Yes," he says, nodding. "I am." He holds out a hand. "Let me help."

You think about it. You're tired. You want your life back. Nothing you've tried has worked. You don't know who this is, but you want to believe him and, frankly, you _do_.

John takes you inside and sits you at your landlady's table. He makes noises about being a cousin from out of town, throwing in a sick aunt—terminally ill and how your landlady clucks over that—while taking your key. He ducks down, arm around the back of your chair like you've known him for years and not five minutes, and quietly asks if there's anything you want. You look at him, aware that this is _insane_ , and stumble through an answer.

He nods, takes your apartment key, and goes upstairs.

You tell your landlady you'll be back in a few days and ask her to water your plant (a fern named Henry and, no, you don't know why that's his name, but it is) and tell Joss that you're sorry you had to cancel.

She tuts and hugs you goodbye. She's a tiny thing, barely tall enough to wrap her arms around your waist, but she crushes you close anyway. You sniffle and hug back while John looks on.

When you're ready, he ushers you into his car, watching everyone around you with a sharp-eyed care that reassures you more than the holster he's wearing does.

He tries to smile as he pulls the car into traffic. You don't ask how he found you, exactly, or who his friend is, because you don't want to know. You don't believe in angels, but your mother does. If this works, you might get the chance to tell her this story and, somehow, you think knowing might ruin the fun.

John takes you to a fancy hotel. It's out of your price range and, when he asks the woman behind the desk for a suite, you cringe. You try to murmur something about the cost, but he brandishes a credit card and grins like it's a personal victory. "It's on the house."

"Yeah, but who's house?" you ask, pushing your dark hair behind your ears. You miss your red hair. You've been dyeing it ever  
since the first time 'he' mentioned it in one of his cards.

John chuckles. "According to him? Someone who can use the miles."

You don't ask. You take the room key he gives you and lets him usher you upstairs. He sweeps the room like a cop, checking everywhere, while you wait in the doorway.

When he's sure its safe, he gets you settled with your bag, his phone number, and a promise to come back once he's checked a few things out. "Just something I wanna run down. Take a bath or something. Order some food."

You want to call Joss, but you know you can't. She doesn't know about this (though you think, maybe, she suspects) and you don't want this to be how she finds out.

Besides, you get the feeling John would probably veto the idea. You just shake your head. "I don't think that'd be a good idea."

"Don't worry, I'm not leaving you alone," he says, going to the hotel phone. "A friend of mine is on his way up. Little guy with a limp. You go take a bath. He'll answer the door—nobody ever has to know you're in here."

You look doubtful, but you're hungry. Your stomach seals the deal by rumbling loudly. You blush. "I skipped lunch."

"Burger and fries it is?" he offers.

You nod sheepishly and sink onto the bed, pulling your legs up. "Extra onions—and a Dr. Pepper."

He makes a face and you make one right back. "Do not knock the Doc," you say. "Not even Joss gets to do that."

He chuckles and you think he says something, but you can't hear what it is. Instead, he orders the room service and then looks at you. "On the way."

"Why are you here?" You rest your chin on your knee. "And who are you?" 

You don't want to know where he came from, but you were a lawyer once. Curiosity comes with the territory.

He looks at you. "Somebody who thinks you should be able to bring your girlfriend home for Christmas."

"She's not my girlfriend," you say, but you're already thinking about it. You picture showing Taylor the mountains where you grew up, and Joss surviving interrogation by aunties and you start crying again.

"I never used to do this," you mutter, scrubbing at your face. "I hate it."

A handkerchief appears in front of your face. "You know you're doing great, right?"

"Doesn't feel like it," you say, but mange to thank him for the handkerchief even as you pat at your face with it.

"Trust me," he says, "You are."

Someone knocks at the door and he goes to check. When he comes back there is, indeed, a little man with a limp in tow. He looks at you and doesn't quite smile, but you like him anyway.

"Harold," John is saying, "This is Liz. Liz, this is Harold. Liz has a date and, hopefully, if we play our cards right, she'll get to keep it."

Your smile isn't much, but it forces itself to the surface anyway. "Here's hoping."

"Hope has very little to do with it," Harold assures.

You hide a laugh by blowing your nose. "He didn't mean that the way it sounds," John says, there's something in his voice and you think, maybe, he's laughing, but the look Harold gives him suggests otherwise.

It reminds you of your grandparents, but you think it might be a good idea not to mention that. Instead, you fold the handkerchief and put it on the bed beside you.

The food arrives just after John leaves. You stay out of sight while Harold goes to get it. It's probably the most expensive cheeseburger you've ever eaten, but you barely taste it. It goes down in a rush and you blush when Harold hands you a napkin.

"Perhaps we should order dessert?" he asks, sitting down again.

You shake your head. "Dessert's for celebrating. I'm not yet." You learned a long time ago that counting chickens is a bad way to face facts. You sneak a look at the bathroom. "But I will take that bath."

Harold nods. "I'll stay here."

You look at him, trying to work out whether he's kidding or not, but decide you'd rather not know. You just smile and go in to turn on the water. You fill the tub to the brim, the water almost sloshing over onto the floor, sink down. It feels good. If not for Joss, you'd think it was the best you'd felt in a while.

You stay there for a long time. Harold knocks on the door after a while. "Ms. Foster?"

You look at your hands. They're getting all pruny. You smile at the thought. "Yes?"

"Are you quite all right? You've been in there for some time and it would be very embarrassing if you were to drown while we were protecting you from a stalker."

"Wouldn't it just?" you say, surprised by how relaxed you feel. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"Good. You forgot your bag, however, so I've left it by the door. There should be a robe for you to use in the meantime."

You nod, then realize he can't see you. "There is."

"Excellent."

You linger when you get out of the tub. The bathrobe is warm, fluffy, and you find yourself staring at your own reflection. Your hair is dripping against the robe, still black, and you miss the red. You look too pale with the black.

You wish you could sneak down to the salon, but that's not a risk you're willing to take right now. In truth, you can't imagine doing anything like that. You haven't in years.

Laying your hands flat against the marble counters, you sigh. You stopped planning for things a long time ago, even longer since you dreamed about anything.

You could dream about the life you have here. You want to. You want to kiss Joss, wake up with her, spend time with her family and make them yours. You want to introduce her to your parents, your aunts, and you want to see them fall for her too. You want to go back to school, to _finish_ , maybe find a firm in New York.

You want a lot of things that you haven't been able to let yourself think about.

Opening the door, you find the bag tucked neatly against the wall. You look for Harold, finding him sitting with his chair deliberately facing in the other direction. Your eyes start to fill with tears again and you blink hard to keep them away. You're not an emotional woman. Not like that. You've cried more in the last few hours than you have in weeks.

You feel ridiculous. You want to do something. You want to go out there and take charge. You don't want to stay here and hide, but that's what you promised you'd do. You don't have to be happy about it, but that's what you'll do.

Maybe that's why you crawl into your oldest, most comfortable clothes before you walk out to sit on the bed again. Somehow, it just seems more comfortable and, maybe, safer.

Harold brings you tea and you smile your thanks. The silence feels awkward to you so you ask, "Any progress?" instead.

"Some," he says, "but it's difficult to say."

You curl your fingers around the mug and smile into it. "Difficult to say without telling me things I really have no business knowing?"

"Yes, exactly," he says. "You're quite astute, Ms. Foster. You'll make a fine prosecutor some day."

You're surprised that he knows about that, but you shouldn't be. He knew about your stalker, something not even Joss knows yet, and you're willing to bet he knows more than that about you. A lot more than that.

"Really?" you say around a yawn. "I hadn't thought about that."

"You should," he says, "though, tonight, I'd recommend that you get some sleep."

You start to shake your head, but realize your eyes feel heavy and sleep sounds very good right now.

You'd joke about Harold dosing the tea, but you doubt it. Instead, you put the mug aside and crawl under the covers. The lights dim after a moment and you hear the hum of a computer booting up.

"Sleep well, Ms. Foster," Harold says, before you close your eyes. You don't expect to fall asleep, you expect the stress to steal any chance at rest, but instead its the opposite. You fall asleep a few minutes later.

When you wake up, it's still dark out, but Harold is gone. John is drinking a cup of coffee and watching the starry sky. There's a bruise high on his cheekbone that match the ones across his knuckles. You blink blearily and feel a swell of sympathy.

"Good morning, Liz," he says, turning his head to look at you. "Did you sleep well?"

"Surprisingly," you say. "Are you all right?"

"I've had worse," he assures.

"Is it—" you bite your lip. You don't want to ask the question. You're afraid of what answer you might hear.

"I thought you might like to go home," he says, but without a smile. You don't want to know what put that look on his face, but you feel relief uncurl in your belly. It ripples out through your lips and you look at him with quizzical eyes. "Yeah, that means what you think it means."

You don't ask what he did. You don't ask if anyone is dead. You just smile and jump out of bed.

John doesn't take you home. You're not sure where you are, not until he escorts you up the walk and rings the bell. "Liz?" Joss says, throwing open the door. "What the— _you_? What are you doing here?"

He smiles, smirks really, and then looks at you. "I'm bringing her home."

He makes a show of stepping back. "Take good care of her, huh?"

Joss sputters, but he just turns around and saunters away. You blink. "What did I just walk into?"

"A very long story," Joss says, turning to you. "Something tells me, though, you have one of your own."

You laugh. "Oh, you have no idea."

She tangles her fingers with yours and pulls you inside. "Try me."


End file.
